In his later years, the man hailed as the finest writer of his time shut himself away in a pointed attic and refused to step outside.
When literary circles talked about the eccentric, some said they had heard from the nanny he employed that he could often be heard laughing to himself and crying in despair.
The rumor was that he had fallen in love with a supporting female character in the first novel he began writing, and even abandoned his planned outline to make her the heroine.
But how much truth could there be in hearsay? The novel in question was never published, and most people simply laughed it off.
Only he knew that every novel he wrote afterward contained a trace of her.
But she would never be the heroine again, no matter how painstakingly he crafted his characters and plotted his stories.
In his heart, only in that unfinished first book were he and she the true protagonists, the only ones who could ever be.
That was why he kept putting off writing the ending.
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